Admit it to Everyone Else
by JinxedSydney
Summary: The cycle repeated, day after day: work, shower, eat, sleep. Occasionally, she repainted her nails. Ellison told her to take a vacation. Karen told him where to go. But that stupid flower pot that she couldn't throw away...
1. Chapter 1

_Forewarning to anyone who follows my stories: I don't use swearing as a general rule. I hint at it but I veer away. But I just couldn't help but slip in one here_ — _one word, twice mentioned. But really, if you watch The Punisher, you won't be shocked at all._

* * *

Words filled her screen—another exposé story. Breaking news with secret ties between a New York City official and the Irish. The letters scrambled together. It was nothing, really. More corrupt politicians in bed with local mobs. Karen couldn't help but wonder if the details of the child trafficking would entice him out of the shadows for this one.

Not Matt.

Frank.

Pete.

It'd taken some digging, but she was good at that. Karen was even better at getting answers. And David Lieberman didn't want to talk—at first. She tried to control the wobble in her voice, talk over the lump in her throat. In the end, he caved.

 _"Frank's okay." David scrubbed his hands over his face on the front step of his suburbia home. "He's gonna kill me for telling you. Or punch me, or whatever."_

 _"No," she said, swallowing hard. "Don't … don't even tell him that I came. I'm just a reporter, looking for a lead."_

 _David scoffed. "Yeah. And I'm just a computer guy, livin' the American dream."_

Karen looked at the screen, mumbling the sentences into the empty room. Checking her notes, she tacked on the last few lines and sent the article to Ellison. She slapped the laptop closed and pulled on her coat as the elevator dropped to street level.

The wind snaked up her calves, and Karen clutched the neckline of her coat. The smell of rain hung in the air. Her flats were nearly silent on the sidewalk, and she didn't want to admit when she started wearing them, so she shook out her hair and picked up the pace. It was easier to ignore the facts, to chalk it up to coincidence. Ironic, considering her line of work. Anything was better than the sweet torture of wondering if Frank watched her on the way home to keep her safe. Or if he was disguised as a panhandler, tucked into a storefront. He had better things to do, she reminded herself.

Fat raindrops plopped on her head when she turned the key to let herself into the building. With a sigh, she slipped up the stairs. Karen didn't even bother with the lights once she threw the bolt on the door. And she chastised herself, yet again, for checking for his silhouette near the couch.

The stupid pot of fake white roses sat on the ground in the corner, its petals nearly blue from the streetlights. She'd tried to throw it away once. Twenty minutes later, it went back to its spot near the window. So, she ignored it for the millionth time.

Karen heated some leftover takeout, opened a beer, and sat on the couch. She pulled up a police scanner app on her phone and let it replace the silence. Somewhere around midnight, she woke up with a stiff neck and vegetable stir fry spilled across her lap.

"Lovely," she whispered, wiping it back into the container.

She dumped the carton into the trash and swiped the app off.

 _Endless, echoing loneliness._

The hot water in the shower didn't help. Of course, it didn't. Karen chucked her outfit into the hamper. She needed to drop it off at the dry cleaners. She double-checked the locks on the door and windows, .380 palmed in her right hand. It slid under the pillow closest to the lamp. Her closest companion for the past three weeks, because her boss didn't count.

The cycle repeated, day after day: work, shower, eat, sleep. Occasionally, she repainted her nails. Ellison told her to take a vacation. Karen told him where to go.

Foggy met her for drinks one Saturday night at Josies. They started with beer and pool, and ended up with shots, shredding Matt's absence.

"How long did you know, Fog?" Karen knocked back her third—no, fourth shot. Foggy's revelation would go down smoother with a fuzzy head.

"Long time." He matched her shot. "He wouldn't stop. Everything and all the years didn't matter."

"And the woman?"

Foggy's bushy eyebrows made lazy arches over his slow blinks. "Elektra. He met her back in college. And then she just poof." He waved his tiny glass above the pub table. "I'm guessing he learned more than a few magic disappearing acts from her."

Pain stabbed Karen behind her left eye. "Well, he should've told me. I keep secrets."

And suddenly, she was back in the elevator, desperately fighting to stay composed when Frank pressed his bloody forehead onto hers.

 _The emergency alarm rattled her eardrums. He had to survive. No matter the way every fiber of her body begged to lean forward, he had to escape,._

 _And so, she stepped backwards, until her shoulder bumped the wall. Everything she wanted to say, to confess, lost to the tears forming in Frank's eyes._

 _"Take care." He glanced to the hole in the ceiling._

 _Then he disappeared._

Karen woke up the next morning with open-mouthed slobber on her pillowcase, clutching her gun across her mattress. Her hair was plastered across her face. She pulled down shirt bunched up near her bra. And the odor of coffee hit her, turning her stomach. She replaced the safety and left her gun near the lamp.

Stumbling from the bedroom, with both hands over her eyes to block the sunlight, Karen slumped against the wall when her headache slammed into her skull. The damn blinds in the living room were open. "Who the hell has coffee?" she whispered, smashing her eyes closed as tightly as possible.

Stone slid against wood nearby. Karen peeked through her fingers.

Frank pushed a mug across her countertop, the cuff of his plaid flannel sliding up the dark hair on his forearm. "Ma'am," he murmured.

"What the hell?" She took a step forward, squinting from the brightness. "Frank?"

"Ma'am," he echoed. The beard and mustache were back. His hair was indecisive, halfway between hipster and military.

One of her eyes wouldn't cooperate and stayed shut no matter how hard she blinked. Karen tried to look less nauseous that she was. The coffee wasn't helping. "What … why are you here?"

"You asked me to come." He nodded to the living room.

Through the unshielded rays of the window, the fake roses rested haphazardly on the sill.

"Oh God." Karen lurched from the wall and staggered into the bathroom, heaving the contents of her stomach into the toilet. Head against the side of the bowl, she heard the tap run and the handle squeak when he turned it back off. When he moved aside her hair from her neck, pressing a cool washcloth against her skin, she muttered her gratitude, wishing their reunion wasn't at her toilet.

He shuffled back toward the kitchen. Karen waited until she couldn't hear his feet move before she crawled to the door and swung it shut. After brushing her teeth, she gasped her way through a cold shower to sober up, only to find one hand towel to dry herself off. Despite the blinding headache, she redressed in the wrinkled clothes she slept in, before tip toeing to her bedroom to change.

It took several sniff tests to find a clean sweater and yoga pants. She licked her finger and scrubbed at the mascara under her eyes.

When Karen emerged, the smell of bacon wafted through the apartment. "You didn't have to cook," she said, looking at the plate of breakfast food.

Frank shrugged and took a sip from his coffee. "I was hungry. So, I made you some." He'd closed the blinds, too.

"I didn't even have groceries in my fridge."

"Just eat the damn food, Karen. And drink this." He pushed a bottle of water next to her plate.

"I need aspirin."

He popped open a bottle perched nearby and shook out two tablets. She held her hand open and he dropped the white pills onto her palm.

"Thanks."

"Yup." He turned back to her new coffee maker, dropping in a pod, and waited while it brewed.

Karen forced herself to eat all of the eggs, but could only manage a couple of bites of bacon. "I'm full," she explained, when his eyebrow hiked after she pushed the remainder away.

Frank grabbed the slices she'd rejected and took a bite. "S'good."

She nodded. Headache still gnawing, Karen folded down onto the couch. She curled into a ball, her head on the armrest closest to the bookcase, feet near the center of the cushions. Her eyes drifted closed.

It had to be asked, the elephant in the room. Karen spent time breathing through her nose, listening to Frank wash dishes in the sink. The longer she waited, the harder it became to tamp her caustic curiosity.

"Where have you been?"

All movement in the kitchen halted.

Karen resisted the desire to repeat her question as the silence stretched out. She would not say it again—she had a code and sense of honor, too. Especially in regards to Frank Castle, no matter if he was an old-fashioned, rosebush-toting guy, who happened to be a vigilante.

"Do you really want to know that?" Without opening her eyes, she knew he'd moved closer by the sound of his growled response—near the television.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes rolling behind her lids. "Forget it."

"I got a job. Construction."

"I don't need to know this."

"Going to group sessions—support counseling."

"Just stop."

"Walking my dog."

Karen pushed herself up, blinking hard. "Frank. Stop."

"You asked."

She held out both hands in surrender. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried."

Frank's trigger finger bounced against his thigh. "Yeah, well … I'm not killing people right now, even though your stories make me want to tear everything apart."

Looking up at him, Karen tipped her head sideways. He read her work. "It won't change anything."

His fingers curled into a fist and he looked toward the window. "I know."

"Sit down." She patted the cushion next to her on the couch.

Pulled inch by inch by an invisible string, Frank moved to the spot. His hands rubbed together on top of his knees, and she saw the callouses and blisters, his grimy fingernails. He stared at the window, jaw working below his dark curly beard.

"I knew you hadn't died." Karen plucked the blanket draped nearby. She shook her head, damp hair brushing her cheeks. Her left shoulder lifted. "But I couldn't bring myself to investigate it, in case you were."

He stayed silent, finger tapping staccato on his jeans once more.

"I'm sorry I made you come."

"No," he said, turning to face her. "Don't apologize. I … I shoulda come before."

"You don't owe me anything."

Frank looked from one of her eyes to the other, his stare shifting back and forth. He shuddered, his nose barely scrunching. "What have you been up to, other than pissing off the mob again?"

Karen leaned her head back and laughed, ignoring the protesting headache. "Same old thing for me. Just working. Trying to do what I can do to stay sane. Expose the underbelly. Hoping no one will kidnap or shoot at me."

"Still have the trusty hand cannon." He nodded toward her bedroom. She wasn't sure if she was embarrassed or aroused that he'd seen her passed out.

"It never leaves me." Her words fell out seconds before the double meaning hit her alcohol- addled brain.

Frank's face ticked ever so slightly. He stood and took a step toward the kitchen until she grabbed his hand. He stood stock still.

"No, I didn't mean it that way."

"What's that called? A Freudian slip?"

"Come on, Frank. I'm hungover."

"That's when most truth hits the fan, I find."

Karen released his hand. "I'm sorry. It just came out."

"Why are you apologizing?"

She bunched her hands into fists and shook her head. "I don't know," she exploded, white pain jolting through her head.

Karen sprang up from her seat. They were nearly eye level to one another. "Here you are, not dead, _again_ , and I knew! Lieberman told me weeks ago. So, imagine my surprise when you didn't show up or at least—I dunno—send me some flowers with a card."

"You wanted flowers with a card?" The coffee from his breath brushed against her cheek.

"No, God. No, Frank. You should know me better than that." She pulled her hand through her hair, fingers getting tangled in the drying strands. "I just expected _something_."

"You didn't put the roses out."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," she whispered, head falling to her chest, which happened to land her forehead against his flannel. That stupid flower pot. And she tried to hold back the tears and the way her shoulders bounced when she started to cry. But it failed and she couldn't blame it on the fading whiskey.

Karen stepped back, swiping at the tears racing down her cheeks. Her chin trembled. She took a deep breath and pasted a brave smile across her chapped lips. "I should've thought of that sooner." Her small laugh lapsed into a sob, so she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and turned her head.

Her body was collected into his protective arms. Frank's rested his head against hers. Karen felt his lips move the hair next to her ear. She leaned into them trying to capture his hushed words, satisfied with the gravely, undiscernible sound. When her tears subsided and she heaved a shaky lungful of air, Frank relaxed his grip wrapped around her.

He eased her away, holding her arm's length away, searching her face. "I screwed that up. It's on me."

"No, no." Karen glanced to the ceiling. "I had no right to assume you'd come."

Frank swore and his hands tightened on her shoulders. "Look at me."

She obeyed, silently cursing the damn tears collecting again.

"Last time we were together, I had a gun to your head."

Karen grunted. "You and I have very different recollections about that."

"Yeah?"

"I needed you to survive. I asked you to put the gun to my head because it was the only way out."

"Damn it!" He rattled her frame much more gently than the Punisher would, then stared at the floor. "If something happened to you …"

"You'd kill them?"

"I can't promise I wouldn't."

"Frank." Karen exhaled his name, reaching forward and latching onto the lapel of his flannel. "I can't stop your war. Or your nightmares. I can take care of myself, but I'll never be safe all of the time."

"I can damn well try."

"What, Frank? Do you want me there to smack your ass in the morning when you leave? 'Be careful and have a good day killing people, honey.' You _know_ I can't … I wouldn't—"

"You wouldn't what?"

Maybe it was the breathy way he asked. Or the fact that he edged his face toward hers, wrinkles gathering when his eyebrows bowed down. Every one of her fears fled, chased away by hope.

She ground her teeth together, but her pursed lips betrayed her and spilled into a smile. "I wouldn't smack your ass."

* * *

 _Music for inspiration: "Question of Lust" by Depeche Mode_

 _My Kastle ship has sailed. I'm totally trashed by it. ~JS_


	2. Black Celebration

_Hey there...FFN is being utterly ridiculous and posted gobbly-gook for chapter 2 for a few days. Sorry about that. And if it doesn't work AGAIN this time, AO3 has it posted correctly._

* * *

Karen had given Frank the spare key when he left the first night. And he'd refused. She held it up, pinched between her fingers, until his dark eyes nearly crossed.

"I'd rather _not_ explain to the neighbors why a man is picking my lock."

His smile shoved sideways as he tucked it into his jeans.

She was too busy with work to count the days (nine long ones) until the evening the deadbolt slid back while she dropped some pasta into a pot of boiling water. Frank rapped his knuckles on the door as he inched it open.

"Ma'am?"

"Hey, stranger." She shook more noodles into the water, hoping the hair draping around her face would cover the grin she struggled to control.

So began the unconventional, unlabeled "thing." Frank would arrive on a random evening and bring dessert or beer or coffee, or sometimes all three. Karen would cook dinner or order in. She would dish up the meal, he'd wash the plates. They'd watch an old movie, from The Outsiders to The Maltese Falcon. He'd hesitate at the doorway each time he left, reminding her to lock it. She'd lean her forehead against the wood once the deadbolt thudded into the jamb, straining to hear his boots.

She was far too occupied to keep track of his visits (the fifth one), when he surprised her with big band tunes from his phone, while the dishes clinked against one another in the sink. She smiled and kept working on her article from the couch, sneaking several peeks to see if the Punisher would lip sync or sway.

Frank turned and noticed her. His chin tipped up, water dripping from his fingers. "Pops used to play them at his shop."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Karen knew better than to ask, and she looked at her article again. She gave him breadth, as opposed to dealing with resolute silence when she pushed.

"You want a beer?"

She read the sentence she'd just finished and squinted. "Ah, no. I need to keep a straight head on to finish this up. Ellison wants it before midnight." The words on the screen weren't cooperating, so she scrubbed her scalp with both hands and let her eyes drift close.

Frank opened and closed a few cupboards across the room. "Hrm."

Cracking one eye open at first, both of them popped equally wide when Karen saw what he held. She'd forgotten all about that, shoved into a cupboard and buried, to deal with later—and the day had arrived.

Frank swirled the whisky inside the bottle. His eyebrow hiked, matching his tipped grin. "Been holding out on me?"

 _"But you won't be the first to die, Miss Page. No, I think Mr. Urich will have that honor, then we'll go to your place of employment, see to Mr. Nelson, Mr. Murdock. After that your friends, family, everyone you've ever cared about and when you have no tears left to shed then, then we'll come for you, Miss Page."_

She tried to tamp down the nervous flinch in her smile. "Have at it." And as if to reassure herself that James Wesley would not come through the doorway, Karen turned and glanced at her purse near the front door.

He tracked her eyes and eased the bottle to the countertop. "What's going on, Karen?"

"Nothing." It was too sudden, her voice too pitched, and she wanted to take everything back. Her hands trembled above the keyboard. She pushed the hair behind her ears and chose to smile.

Frank lumbered toward the couch. "You don't have ta tell me, but it's got me wondering why you're eyeballin' the gun in your purse."

A lie slid into Karen's thoughts, but she bit it back. They were honest with one another. She looked at her murderous hands. Her jaw worked back and forth until she closed the laptop and set it on the coffee table. Elbows to her knees, she leaned into both hands.

The couch dipped when Frank sat and turned on the television, fiddling with the remote. And when the music started, Karen retreated further into her entangled thoughts. She knew the movie because it was her favorite. And he knew it, too.

 _"Remember, remember_

 _The fifth of November,_

 _The gunpowder treason and plot…"_

Sometime after the Old Bailey was annihilated, Frank's fingers brushed Karen's bare shoulder. Innocuous, as if he wanted her to remember he was there (as if she'd forget). She pried her face from her hands and looked to the masked figure on the screen.

"I …" Karen's confession slithered behind her ribcage, desperate to escape. Maybe it'd stop the nightmares. Because if it wasn't Frank's body jerking in a hail of bullets, or Matt waving seconds before a building collapsed, it was Wilson Fisk's chunky fingers flexed across her windpipe.

Frank lowered the volume. He hunched forward on the couch. She could see him looking at her from the corner of her eye. "You know you can tell me."

"I know," she snapped. "I'm sorry." Her stomach flopped and she cleared her throat from some sudden, invisible irritation. "How… how do you bury something so deep that you don't feel it anymore?"

"Ma'am?"

"I did something, a long time ago, and it sneaks back in." She bit the corner of her thumb and curled her toes into the rug.

For a moment, Karen thought that he hadn't heard her, until he exhaled. "Okay."

V gave the doctor a Scarlet Carson rose onscreen when Karen finally looked to the ceiling. Logic and reason clawed at her throat, frantic. "I did something horrible."

Frank's movements stilled altogether.

"I'll tell you why I looked at my gun. Because I'm not the person you think I am."

She lowered her gaze to his calloused hands, perched on his knees. The denim was worn and looked soft. She might have thought Frank was a monster a long time ago, but he waited for her to speak.

"What's the saying—just rip the band-aid off?" Her weak laugh sounded hollow.

"You don't have to say nothin'." His sandpapered contradiction was barely more than a whisper.

"I killed someone, Frank."

She heard his shortened breath before he grabbed both of her hands. "Okay."

And as hard as she tried to stare at his rough knuckles, Karen flicked her eyes up. He leaned his forehead into hers.

"I ain't gonna judge you for a life, Karen. It's not my place. Whoever it was needed to stay down. You wouldn't just go doin' that."

She hiccuped a sob and slid her face into his shoulder. He held her there, one hand on her neck, the other clutching her hands.

"I was so angry," she whimpered into his flannel. "I should've stopped, but I kept pulling the trigger until it was empty."

Frank's hand left Karen's and cradled her face until she pulled away from his body.

For a second, a minute, a week, a lifetime, their eyes roamed each other's face. If anything, she saw the sorrow in his blown pupils as they glanced to her eyes, hair, lips. Something lower, much lower than the panic behind her ribs ignited and she blurted out her hidden thoughts.

"I need you to kiss me," Karen breathed. "Or get me drunk because I don't want the nightmares tonight."

He swiped his thumb across her chin, eyes bouncing back and forth between her own. When he sharply inhaled, Karen silently begged him to grant her first request, but knew it was futile. He pushed himself up. Her fat, hot tears plopped onto his empty spot when she heard the bottle slide from the countertop. The metal lid ground against the glass on its way off, just before Frank sat it next to her laptop.

Karen straightened and shook her hair loose, ashamed for loosening her secret. She sniffed hard and nodded to the bottle. "What? No glasses?"

"Not needed." He grabbed the bottle and resumed his spot on the couch. He watched her, without blinking, and raised the neck to his lips. She felt stripped to the bone when he tipped the liquid into his mouth, still staring at her.

She tried to avoid his fingers when he passed the bottle to her, but they touched, regardless—the fire behind her belly button flaring out in all directions. The bottle hurried to her lips and she closed her eyes when her head slanted back. She pretended that she could still taste his lips on the rim. Putting both hands on the bottle to steady herself, she gulped a mouthful, willing the flaming whisky to burn her into oblivion rather than have Frank remember what she said.

When Karen pulled a second slug into her mouth, the bottle was torn away. Liquor dribbled down her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, then picked at her nail polish as Frank screwed the lid back on.

"Aw come on," she said, reaching for the bottle when he went to put it on the coffee table. Nothing to lose anymore, she plowed ahead. He was probably pissed off anyway. "Takes more than a couple of sips of whisky to get me drunk, Frank."

He set the bottle on the floor, well out of her reach.

She was already looking at him when he glanced to her. "Let me guess. This falls under the 'it's not you, it's me' category?"

"It ain't that."

"Then give me the damn bottle."

"I still love my wife."

"I know that!" Her voice—no, her frustration unleashed. Ripping off the band-aid be damned. "Everyone knows that! Do you _really_ think I'm that shallow? That I'd think you'd ever forget your wife? Your children?"

Frank glared, the former sympathy hardening around the corners of his eyes, nostrils flaring wide. His nose fractionally scrunched. The muscles at his jaw line flexed, pushing up the wiry hairs of his beard, as he kept back his answer.

Karen heard it though—his shock that she would dare to throw his family into the fray. Her humiliation smothered everything. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she whispered. She rose, twisting to flee to her bedroom.

He caught her wrist. She faced the kitchen, tears spilling over again, but refused to turn.

"Who was it?" Frank's voice was controlled, but she heard the fight in his tone.

And she knew he was trying, that he heard her revelation and accusation. After all, he was Frank Castle, a good and honorable man. The one who'd saved her life. Held a gun to her head when she'd begged him to. She stepped backwards, relenting to the pressure on her wrist, until the warm cushion settled underneath her again. But he held on, thumb against the blue veins under her skin. He was trying.

"Um, James Weasley." Because if she couldn't tell him, who could she tell? Foggy would never look at her the same way. And had Matt known … "He, uh, worked for Fisk." The whisky teased her from the carpet.

Frank's grip squeezed then relaxed.

"He put the gun on the table between us and told me it wasn't loaded. And when he stood up, I shot him." The desperation for the whisky hung on her tongue, heavier than the words. "Then, I kept pulling the trigger because he said he would kill everyone else before me."

A calloused thumb scraped skin so sensitive, that Karen's eyes jerked to watch it trace a lazy circle.

"I … I wiped off the table, so there wouldn't be any fingerprints. I threw the gun into the river. Came home, drank from that bottle, and have never been the same." Her voice slid into silence, as the violence raged on the television, mirroring her mind. "No one knew. I'm not the God-damned saint that everyone thinks I am, who they have to protect."

James Wesley's demon of silence thrashed thoughts of repulsion and doubt. Frank crushed his thumb into her wrist. She looked at their connection and didn't flinch, grateful for the pain to suffocate any other feelings she harbored for the Punisher. A bruise was of little consequence.

"Then there are the others I killed without a gun," Karen plowed ahead, a shaky breath pulling her from any false sense of normality. "Like Ben Ulrich."

"Stop."

Her head hauled up at his single word, and he was already watching her, waiting for her eyes to catch up to his.

"You took care of it when you had to. No need to be shouldering the weight of another." Frank pressed his thumb even harder before releasing altogether. He looked down and his shoulders sagged, as if the weight of the world had landed on them, when he moved his thumb and saw the blood rushing back to the white spot. "You … you go find trouble. And sometimes trouble finds you. But I got your back now. I know you can take care of yourself, I've heard you say it."

Karen swallowed her laugh, but it rushed through her nose in a hurried breath. She shook her head and looked as Evie pressed her lips to V's mask (If only).

"It doesn't mean that I don't want you safe, Karen. And I ain't gonna argue about it again."

Suddenly, she was thrust back to the river near the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge in her mind, and he was furious, seething at her for doing her job. But when she looked across the sofa, he was shaking his head and she could feel his palm around her tender wrist.

"Okay," she said.

Frank heaved a sigh, nodding to their knees before looking up. "Okay."

Karen chuckled. "I think that is our code word."

"Yeah?"

"And there's our other one." Her grin crept until her teeth showed.

He laughed and it chased away her demons for a heartbeat. Reaching for the whisky, he rolled the bottle between his hands. She could see him wrestle it, that unnamed "thing," his own war, that pulled them together like anxious magnets—and pushed them away all the same.

"No glasses." She pressed her hand against his, the ache in her wrist reminding her that he wouldn't forget her craving. First, she'd called him "honey" and assumed they'd be together each morning ( _her_ after, with him). And now this confession, laid bare. He may have been silent, but he was not ignorant. After all, he was Frank Castle, a man who walked into a building, always knowing a way out.

Frank removed the lid and lifted the bottle to his lips, eyes fastened to hers. And it's all Karen could do to not stare and burn inside and shove down the snippets of dreams she still guarded. Her heart stuttered when he glanced to her lips as he dragged a gulp from the bottle.

Karen followed suit, once he'd handed the whisky over, their fingers more than brushing.

"To whisky, for chasing the nightmares away," she offered. "To staying safe."

He didn't answer. She didn't want him to. Because they both knew—that "thing." And it nudged them when the movie ended, and he caught her by the elbow because she lost her balance getting up from the couch. It prodded as he shrugged on his jacket and she picked up his hat after it fell out of the pocket. It stirred when Frank reminded her to lock the door, and Karen listened to his footsteps fade.

Her phone buzzed inside her pocket.

 **Pete: goodnight**

That "thing."

Karen slipped to her window and carefully pulled the blinds to look into the street. Frank waited, far longer than the Punisher would have, watching her watch him, and then disappeared into the shadows.

* * *

Inspired by "Black Celebration," by Depeche Mode.


	3. A Question of Lust

Matt Murdock's sudden and miraculous resurrection from the dead was met with a polite, stiff-armed hug. Foggy looked about as miserable as she felt. Frank took the news with a grunt and a string of curses. Karen laughed. She'd tasted honesty and it'd drawn the soul out of her. There was nothing but a second-chance friendship between she and Matt, and she wasn't even sure if it would work out that way.

She rolled her eyes and was deleting the latest "friendly good morning" text, coffee dripping into a cup, when she heard Frank's key ram into the lock. She pulled down another mug and pinched some pink into her cheeks. At least she was dressed for work already.

The door crashed into the wall after Frank had worked the lock free. He had a pistol on the ready, tucked against the outside of his thigh. Eyes working the room as he advanced into the apartment, Karen stilled at the coffee maker. He cleared her bedroom, checked the locks on the windows, tugging the curtains closed. And when he returned to the living room, he removed the key from the tumbler and closed the door before tucking the gun into the back of his waistband.

"Russo escaped."

Karen's hand flipped up and covered her mouth.

"I gotta go," he said, his left hand flat on the countertop.

"You're going to find him." She knew Frank wouldn't stop until Billy Russo was dead. Even then, Frank may not be satisfied.

"You're not safe with me."

Karen opened her mouth to interrupt and was immediately shut down when Frank flagged his hand in the air.

"I don't need you to argue with me right now, Karen. Please. Madani already has someone on the way here."

"I have my gun. I don't need Homeland Security breathing down my neck! It just makes me a bigger target."

"You don't know Billy."

She scoffed. "And you don't know me if you think that I won't call Madani and tell her to go to hell."

Frank tipped his chin to the ceiling and closed his eyes, finger bouncing like a hyper toddler against his jeans. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, redirecting his attention from above to the woman across the counter.

"I told you before that I _cannot_ let anything happen to you. Why can't you just listen to me, just this once?" His voice was low, raw. "Please."

"It will never end for you," Karen whispered, catching the wobble in her voice.

His barely nodded. "Not until he is dead … until he can't hurt anyone else."

"I don't think so, Frank." She inhaled, the coffee flooding her senses. "There will always be others."

Frank glanced to the wall, jaw working underneath his beard, then back to Karen. "I didn't ask for this."

"I believe we are who we choose to be. I can't choose for you. Nobody knows what you want, except for you." Karen took a shaky breath and plowed forward before her resolve fled from his unwavering gaze. "And I've always wanted there to be more for you. _Always._ And as cliché and ridiculous as it sounds, I wanted to be part of it. Even if it meant I was in danger."

She'd drifted around the barrier between them when she spoke, toward him. Frank remained fixed, watching her movements, her lips—eyes roving and possessive. Karen brushed her fingers against his on the countertop, imagining the bruises and cuts that would soon litter his face. Would his shave the beard? Trim the hair back up the sides of his head? Her gaze traveled with her thoughts, and body with it, until their hips nearly met.

He smelled like coffee and stale laundry and his chest muscles flexed underneath his shirt when Karen pushed a chunk of curls from his forehead. When she leaned in and kissed him, lips parted and wishing for more, she closed her eyes. Her shoulder curled into his when she felt his hand slide underneath her hair. Fingers that had killed, cradled her head, and his calloused thumb grazed her cheek. Her jaw went slack. Her insides hummed. Frank ended their kiss just after he made a noise in the back of this throat and leaned in for more. He dropped his hand back to his side, like a dead weight.

"I can't keep you safe."

"We've already had this argument. I'm a big girl and I make my own decisions." Karen smiled and shook her head a tad. "You can't keep everyone safe, Frank."

Nostrils flaring, his trigger finger resumed its staccato. He blinked rapidly. And she knew he was layers deep in thought and planning and leaving, for her sake. It didn't matter what she said. At all.

"I need to go." He stepped back with one foot, looking at her. Resolution tightened across his face. Karen watched him mentally cut the invisible string to the "thing;" a tic near his lips, the way his jaw muscles jumped.

"Wait. I can make breakfast before you go." A lame offer. She didn't even move toward the fridge. Anything to have him stay a few more minutes.

"No … I …" Frank looked over his shoulder toward the front door.

"Okay." It sounded so small and tragic.

When he turned back to face her, his lips pulled apart. And he wanted to speak, she could tell by the way he drew in a breath. But, his nose bunched a little and the moment was gone.

And there was something so final, so absolute in the way he pressed his lips together and brows dropped, that Karen didn't follow him to the door. She heard the latch click, and it was then that she saw the spare key on the corner of the counter. After all, he was Frank Castle: soldier, husband, father, murderer, the Punisher.

It took hours for her to answer the texts from Ellison. Days to return Foggy's call. Weeks to remember to buy groceries. And her pattern resumed, like an old friend, visiting day after day: work, shower, eat, sleep.

 _Endless, echoing loneliness._

When she left the Bulletin and glanced at the panhandlers or scanned the rooftops, it gently blew the ember of hope she kept tucked away. Karen didn't mind the sad eyes Foggy gave her when they had a beer at Josies. She thought he was more noble than the way Matt tried to insist on walking her home or texting to make sure she was okay, tacking on his endless apologies. There would never be an amount of loneliness that made Matt's arms plausible.

Just after Thanksgiving, Karen hung up the spare key on its old hook. On a rainy day before Christmas, she dropped the white silk roses into the garbage chute. She didn't trust herself leaving them in the trash can. And by New Year's Eve, she couldn't dodge the feeling that she was giving up on Frank. Or that he had given up on her.

Spring rains washed the gutters in the Kitchen. Karen exposed a child labor ring in the posh high rises of Manhattan. She gutted a false business front for fentanyl sales in Greenwich Village. Ellison celebrated the uptick in sales by presenting her with a small bonus. Karen bought a Beretta .22 Tomcat from someone who knew someone (it would fit into smaller purses).

It was an ordinary summer afternoon when she finally made her way to the benches on the waterfront at Grand Ferry Park. She pulled a plastic container of sushi from her bag and stared at the river while she ate. Her hair was up because she hadn't made time for a cut (in almost twelve months). A trickle of sweat raced down her neck, despite the breeze.

 _I will come for you._

Karen lowered her lunch and slowly glanced around. Goosebumps raised the hair on both arms. A mom pushed a double stroller, a group of buttoned-up businessmen waved their hands as they continued on their course. The shadows near the landscaping were empty. Through the rails, the river drifted out to sea. And she found herself miserable, knowing it would takes days and days and days to chase Frank's ghost away again. Chucking the rest of her meal into the trash bin, she stalked back to the office, chastising herself for dredging up old memories.

On the elevator ride to her office, Karen looked to the ceiling. The tile was loose. She got off two floors below her exit and took the stairs back down. Instead of looking to the shadows and searching, she fired off a text to Ellison that she was taking the afternoon off and hailed a taxi. She sat in the middle of the backseat so that she couldn't look up to the rooflines back to her apartment.

That was the day she decided to start jogging. Karen's feet felt like molten lead an hour later, her lungs burned. She researched the best running shoes and bought an entire week's worth of outfits that were delivered within two days. And a tiny holster that held the Tomcat near her ribs. Come rain or sleet or sunshine, her soles slapped the cement while she dodged trash bags, needles, or kids playing hopscotch. There was a sweet nothingness in the cadence of her stride. Concentration on the path ahead left little time to look anywhere but ahead. It wasn't perfect, but it held her dark thoughts at bay.

Frank never surfaced. No random dead bodies or unconscious Anvil former employees. Reluctantly, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen became her insider for articles. It was a casual affair of texts or meeting for lunch at a crowded diner, where she could keep her hands out of his reach. He gave her names to follow up on, meeting dates and times to pass along to Sergeant Mahoney. Never once did he slip up and say Frank's name, but it was obvious they'd met and even worked together.

It was even more apparent when Matt figured out that Karen knew Frank by the way he skirted the details of Frank's movements.

They were discussing The Hand at a deli. She scribbled notes about the mystical cult-like group, not really understanding the whole world dominance thing. Seemed like the Avengers had that corner of the market handled.

"Karen," Matt said, shaking pepper onto his chicken salad, "I want us to be friends."

"We are friends." She sniffed and took a sip of water, watching as he tracked her movements.

"I mean back to what it was, before all of this stuff happened." And he smiled a stupid, cute Matthew Murdock lop-sided smile that would've curled her toes ages ago.

Karen contemplated her answer as she chewed her sandwich. "Do you mean the part before you kept lying to me about _certain things_ or the before I found Elektra?" She took another draw of water. "Because I'm trying really hard to figure out which one."

"I didn't mean to hurt you. Or Foggy."

She tossed her head back with a forced laugh. "Oh, here I was thinking this was about me and you're making it about you."

Matt sighed and pushed back against the booth seat.

"Let's do us both a favor and just keep this on a professional level, Matt. That way you don't have to remember to tell the truth and I don't have to remember everything else."

"I see he rubbed off on you."

"Excuse me?" Surely, Matt couldn't be saying what she thought. He'd never push her that far.

Matt didn't respond. His eyebrows hiked and he stared like a blind man shouldn't stare.

Karen wiped her mouth with the paper napkin and stood. "I'd rather have Frank Castle's honesty rub off on me than try and attempt to be polite with a liar and hypocrite." She clutched her bag, wishing it were her fingers around Matt's neck.

He was up, holding her by the elbow. "Karen, I'm sorry."

"I'm sure you are."

"Please, Karen, I'm sorry. Sit back down. Finish lunch."

Before she could answer, her phone rang. And Ellison _never_ called.

"Get back to the office now." He was out of breath and panicked. Matt tilted his head to hear.

"I'm finishing—"

"Right goddammed now, Page."

She yanked her elbow free. Her feet were in motion and she switched the phone to the opposite ear so she could slide her right hand into her purse, happy to have picked the .380 by the tone of her editor's voice.

"Talk to me, Mitchell." Karen heard Matt's cane tapping the sidewalk behind her as she sped toward The Bulletin.

"There's been reports of a shooting … hang on." Ellison covered the mouthpiece and yelled to someone, stringing curses together. "Where are you?"

Karen started to jog. "I'm only a block away."

"Hurry up."

"What is happening?"

"You really have no idea?"

Her phone vibrated with another call. She glanced long enough to see Madani's name. And five text messages from various contacts.

"I was eating lunch." Karen palmed the grip of the gun, eyes swinging across the sidewalks. Everyone was glued to their phones.

"Frank Castle has been spotted—with Billy Russo."

Karen stopped so suddenly that Matt plowed into her back and shoved her forward.

"What?"

"There's an active shooter in Douglaston and the footage is showing, oh Lord …"

She felt Matt rush away, tapping through the citizens crowding the sidewalks. Her feet sped back into a hurried jog. Ellison described Frank's movements as best as he could, swearing at the cameras to hold still. The elevator was taking too long. She thought her heart would rip out through her rib cage when Ellison gasped and whispered that Frank was down on the street.

"He's been hit, Karen. He's down."

The elevator dinged and she rushed into her office, where Ellison sat at her chair, watching her laptop monitor.

Frank, shaved and hair trimmed, rocked forward onto his feet and dragged himself up, face flinching in pain.

"Please, please, please," she chanted into the room. Her phone kept buzzing with notifications, so she tossed it onto the desk, eyes never leaving the screen. Ellison clamped onto her left hand with both of his.

They watched as The Punisher rose, blood dripping onto the painted white skull emblazoned across his chest. The person livestreaming ducked behind a brick pillar, panning right. Billy Russo screamed Frank's name. He raised some massive machine gun, straight out of a mobster movie, and pulled the trigger.

"No!" Karen lurched to the monitor. "Frank!"

"Turn, goddamn it!" Ellison screamed.

The phone whirred from the stack of papers on Karen's desk.

But the amateur filmmaker focused on Billy, his ruined mouth opened wide, as his body rattled from the gun's recoil. For an eternity and in a split second, Russo defiantly laid waste to everything before him.

Then his shoulder jerked backward.

His gun faltered.

And the back of his head exploded into an ugly, red mass.

The jerky phone camera finally swung back toward Frank. He was already advancing forward, gun trained where Billy's body had fallen.

Karen finally let go of her gun. She heard the sirens through the video feed. Madani had a hell of a mess to clean up after this. Karen focused on Frank's limp.

"Hey!" A man's voice erupted near the phone still tracking Frank's hunt. The feed bounced and jiggled, making the video a blur of colored motion. "Give me back my phone!"

Blackness interrupted the feed before the message blipped onto the laptop:

Connection lost.

Her phone vibrated over and over and over again.

* * *

And at least one more chapter, folks. Because ... Kastle. ~JS


	4. Dressed in Black

Karen's eyes snapped open and she gulped for air. Fisk's ghostly strangle disappeared into the sunlight of her bedroom.

"Saturday," she exhaled, pushing her hair from her face. She rolled to face the door and blinked before scrambling back to the wrought iron headboard. "Jesus Christ, God almighty, Frank."

The man in question had his back to her, attempting to leave the room when she'd seen him. He straightened and turned. "Ma'am."

And she looked for blood or bruises, her feet throttling her body toward him. Surely, he'd been shot or stabbed. It'd been weeks since the televised standoff with Billy Russo. There was no blood on the floor, so she pulled his hands from his jacket pockets, then peeled off the outer leather shell. She pushed until he turned and she could inspect his back, muscles taut beneath the black t-shirt.

"Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?" Karen made the Punisher turn a complete circle, searching for his injuries, ignoring the handle of the revolver tucked into the small of his back. He had a day's worth of stubble on his face and his cropped hair was growing out.

"What? No."

Her eyes shot from his uninjured chest to his eyes. Her right hand rested on his elbow, her left held an equally unharmed hand. She took a couple of steps backwards. "Did you need something?"

Frank inhaled.

"Wait. How'd you get in?" She knew where the spare key ( _his key_ ) was hanging—the same place it'd been for months.

"Doesn't matter."

"Like hell it doesn't matter! I could've shot you."

He cocked his head toward something behind her. Karen turned and saw her gun near the base of the lamp.

"You were thrashing around and I didn't want you to hurt yourself."

She held her teeth together. "Fine. It still doesn't explain what you're doing here." Anger hopped around her head like a rabbit with a hammer, smashing at the hope his reappearance stirred.

Frank's chest expanded as he pulled in a long breath. He looked at his boots first, hooking his thumbs on the belt loops of his jeans. Karen forced herself to not watch his trigger finger bounce against his thigh as it echoed against her bedroom walls.

"I owe you an apology."

She breathed through her nose to try and slow her heart as it thrashed against the back of her ribcage.

"I didn't know what to do other than what I did," he said.

"You mean take off."

"Yeah. There ain't no amount of apologizing that'll make that right."

Karen scoffed. "At least you got that part right, Frank."

He took a half step forward, into the space she'd wanted to keep between them. She clamped her teeth together, refusing to be pressed into retreat.

"I am sorry, Karen."

"I know you are."

"I've been working with Madani on a few things. Red, too—although our techniques are different."

She crossed her arms, shifting from one bare foot to the other, suddenly aware that she stood in front of the vigilante in nothing but an old, black t-shirt and itty bitty shorts that barely covered both cheeks. "Okay."

"Still at that construction job. And going to group once a week with Curt."

"That's good." Karen tried to sound happy about that, because she honestly was grateful he had someone to talk to. At least he'd stuck with something, even if it hadn't been her. Tear started to form until she blinked and tossed her head, pinching the soft skin under her armpit to keep from crying over Frank. Again.

But he noticed (because he always did), those dark eyes stuck to her. "Goddamn it, I'm sorry, Karen."

She smiled, fake and wide, to tame her trembling lips. "It happens."

"Please," he whispered, advancing another half step.

"Please what?" she choked out. Karen breathed through her nose and refused to name the ache raging in her belly.

 _Endless, echoing loneliness._

Used to stuffing the feeling away, Karen pretended, just for a moment, that they were strangers. Hospitality mattered. "I'm going to make coffee." She walked around him, grabbing her bathrobe from the hook on the door, even though she was already warm. Her ass didn't need to be on display. "Are you staying?"

"Yeah." His boots scuffed the floor as he followed.

She busied herself in the small kitchen. It was easier to have her hands occupied than acknowledging the man who leaned against the countertop. She knew he was watching her, cataloguing her movements and gauging what to say next. It was warfare and she was the target.

The coffee percolated into the small carafe, its aroma holding Karen's attention.

"I wasn't there for my family." Frank cleared his throat behind her. "I don't mean at the carousel—I mean when the kids grew up. Every time I was home, I knew I would be deployed again. Sometimes, I even looked forward to it. And Maria, she knew that. Lisa and Frankie, they didn't understand. I could've applied for a job transfer, stayed home. But I always left."

Karen struggled to keep her breathing even, as she poured the brew into two mugs. She topped hers off with sweet creamer and stirred it before turning around, both cups in hand. Her knuckles were white against the ceramic. Frank was never a wordsmith, never the world's greatest solver of problems, unless it involved violence and death. She pushed the black coffee to his fingertips. It mesmerized her to watch the same violent hands wrap around the handle.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She watched the liquid in the mug as she drank. Then, she looked at the countertop. The hem of his black shirt. Anywhere other than his face. She'd fall for him. Down to the floor for him. Begging for more of him. And she wouldn't survive his absence this time.

When his empty mug landed near hers, Frank heaved a deep sigh. His free hand disappeared from her view and she heard him rub his beard and probably his face. She wanted him to struggle. To plead. To promise. And knew it wouldn't happen.

He whispered something into his hand and Karen looked up. His eyes were closed, chin nearly touching his chest.

"What was that?" she asked.

Frank's eyes peeled open, as if she'd woken him from a long sleep. He straightened, hand dropping to his pocket. "Uh, it was Lisa's favorite book. It helps me … stay focused."

She made a non-committal sound from the back of her throat to feign disinterest, clinging to the mug instead of reaching out to touch the calloused knuckles and coax his daughter's story. She watched his hand flex around the empty cup.

"One batch, two batch, penny and dime."

Karen could imagine the brown-haired girl from the picture curled into her daddy's lap, his large fingers flipping each page. She wondered if he read the characters in different voices.

"I left them." His strangled voice caught and he had to clear his throat to continue. "Every damn time. I left what I loved most in this life."

She wanted to hear the double meaning—that she was included in that sentence. But, the desperation in his tone left no doubt that he longed for his wife and children. And she couldn't help it when a few tears slipped out for him. He was, after all, Frank Castle, not a monster.

So, she allowed him pause. Nothing but the silence and two empty coffee mugs between them. And the "thing" that refused to abandon her soul in the kitchen that morning. Even when he had asked her to stop, after he left. The tiny voice that reminded her on the way to work that she didn't have to look at the rooftops and shadows, because she always knew he was there.

"I'm sorry I left, Karen. I wish I had a better way of saying it."

But he said something without saying the exact words: she _had_ been in that thought, wedged after Maria and the kids.

She pressed a hand against her lips to hold the sob inside. It wouldn't help either of them if she just broke down and cried like a baby. Maybe he didn't love her like he did his family. Maybe he didn't love her at all. But, he did care. Something in that warped mind of his made him walk away.

Realization washed over her like a blanket fresh from the dryer. "You did it to keep me safe."

"Yeah." Frank swore softly, nudging his fingers towards hers on the countertop.

Karen's hiccupped, tears catching in the corners of her eyes. "You really screwed that one up."

He reached out with his trigger finger, grazing the back of her hand. "I know. I'm sorry."

"You've said that already."

Somewhere in the bedroom, a phone chirped. Karen bobbed her head at him to go. Frank loped to the room and returned with his jacket in one hand, thumb scrolling the screen in the other. He looked up, his eyes wandering to the v-cut in her t-shirt, then back up again.

"It's Curt. He's makin' sure I'm okay."

Karen nodded and twisted to the opposite counter to refill her coffee. "Want some more?" she asked over her shoulder.

"I … I gotta get going. Curt needs eyes on me."

"You have a babysitter now?"

Frank's chuckle warmed her insides down to her bare toes. "Nah. I've been messed up for a while now."

She hummed again and topped off her cup with creamer.

"Karen?"

She turned. Like a ghost, he'd come around the countertop and was much closer than she'd thought, his chest nearly touching her coffee. Frank's gaze roamed her face, like so long ago, in the hotel elevator—in another lifetime.

"Would you come with me?"

"To meet Curt?"

"Yeah."

"Sure."

But neither moved. That "thing" cemented their feet to the floor.

Frank tipped his forehead against her, his eyes sliding closed. "I didn't know you wore black."

She could smell the bitter coffee on his breath. Remembering the last time she tried the straightforward approach, Karen pulled back and grinned. "Every once in a while."

"You should wear it more often." Frank didn't make a point to hide his appreciation, eyes trotting down to her bare legs, under the parted bathrobe.

Karen felt the blush chase up her neck and color her cheeks. "I'll do that," was all she could manage to whisper.

His phone sounded again. Frank rolled his eyes. "Goddamn, Curt." He stepped back as she walked around him towards the bedroom.

"You going to be here after I'm dressed?" She had to ask. Just to be sure.

"Ain't plannin' on going anywhere 'til you're ready."

Karen smiled into her empty room. And she didn't answer. She also didn't close the door. Instead, she pawed through her dresser, looking for anything black. He probably could've watched her dress, had he shifted his stance six inches. But, he remained facing the kitchen when Karen peeked out a few times. He only turned when she was stepping towards the bathroom to brush her hair and teeth.

She noticed as he examined her decidedly dark shirt and jeans, eyebrows barely inching up, looking more predatory than the man who'd tried to sneak out of her bedroom earlier. Relishing what little power she could sway, Karen made quick work with her toothpaste, then pulled her hair into a high ponytail before heading to the front door.

Frank followed her, mute.

"Would Curt mind meeting us for breakfast? I'm starving." She grabbed her purse, swung the strap to her shoulder, and draped her jacket over her other arm.

"I left this."

Confused, Karen turned, her hand resting on the doorknob. The spare key tapped against the wall as he removed it.

"I left this," he repeated, flipping the key over in his hand. "Shouldna done it."

"You going to keep beating yourself up?" Karen pulled the door wide. "I'll have to tell Curt. And then I'll get hangry and my first impression to him will be meaningless. I'll be forever known as a nag."

Snapped out of his mental retreat, Frank jammed the key into his pocket. He reached behind her and held the door open. "Ma'am."

"Did you ask him about breakfast?"

"Yup. Can't have you blowing your first impression."

"Hey," she said, taking the stairs side-by-side with him to the ground floor. "He's stuck with you for a long time. Seems like a decent man."

"He's the best."

"Well, I don't want to be scary. And I get all wonky if my stomach is empty."

Frank laughed as they passed through the lobby.

Hell's Kitchen greeted them with gray skies and a blast of cold air. She struggled for about two seconds with her coat before Frank settled it onto her shoulders. His hand landed in the small of her back.

"What were you dreaming about?" Frank asked at a crosswalk.

"This morning?" She paused. No lying, though it would wake the dragon. "Fisk was strangling me." The light turned and she surged forward.

He pressed his hand against her spine.

Karen halted on the other side of the street and turned to him. Frank stared at the cement, flexing his hands into fists and opening them, over and over.

"Stop, Frank." She took both of his hands in hers. His callouses scratched her skin. "Let's just go to breakfast. I'll meet the infamous Curt, and pry a story about you out of him. Maybe two." She smiled when he finally looked up. "Okay?"

"Okay."

By the time they'd reached the diner, Frank was still brooding, but he opened the door for her. She looked around and a cheerful man waved from a booth. Without giving Frank the opportunity to grumble or grouch, Karen advanced on the man struggling to stand.

"You must be Curt!" She extended her hand forward.

"And you must be the notorious Karen Page." He clasped her hand with a strong, warm grip. "It's a pleasure to meet you, after hearing so much about you."

"So much about me?" She craned her neck to look at Frank, who reached up to remove her coat.

"Curt," he warned, his tone dropping, dark eyes flicking up to intimidate his friend into silence.

"Frank," Curt countered, smile widening. He dropped back onto the vinyl seat. "And I also know that you're hungry, which is good because I could eat a horse."

Karen laughed and slid across the bench, closer to the window. Frank moved next to her, their legs touching. He tucked her coat across her knees, under the table. She had to dismiss her disappointment when his hand didn't linger on her knee.

She genuinely liked Curt. He didn't reveal much about his conversations with Frank, but it was beyond obvious that he valued their friendship. Karen couldn't help but notice the way he goaded Frank toward happiness. She mowed through her pancakes, laughing at the story he told, where Frank had sent a corporal to Medical Logistics looking for an package of fallopian tubes Curt needed for a mission.

"What can I say?" Frank grinned into his biscuits and gravy. "It was an easy target." His shoulders bounced when he chuckled.

Karen wanted more of this part of Frank. "You got any others?" She winked at the man to her right.

Curt laughed. It bounced around the diner and patrons turned to glance before resuming their meals. "You and me, we're going to have to meet in secret or something. You have _no_ idea the dirt I have on him."

Frank scoffed into his coffee cup. "Meet in secret. Go to hell, Curt."

"Right after you, my friend, right after you." Curt's phone vibrated on the table. He slid the screen on. "I have an appointment in fifteen." He stood and leaned over the table to shake Karen's hand again. "It was nice to meet you, Karen."

"Likewise, Curt." In the span of thirty-seven minutes, she felt like she'd known him for years. "Same time next week?"

Curt pulled his coat on. "Sure! And if this guy isn't here, we'll talk smack the entire time."

Frank swore before he stood and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "See ya soon."

The bell rang above the door before Frank resumed his spot and scooped up the last of his breakfast.

"I like him," Karen said. She waved at Curt as he passed by the window.

"It's hard not to like him."

"I can see why you like going to his groups. He keeps it simple and honest."

"Yup."

"You have any plans today?"

"Nothing in particular. You?"

Karen stretched back against the seat. "I have an article that is due, but I can finish it tonight. The only other thing was an art exhibition in Harlem, though I'm guessing you're going to skip that."

"Good guess."

Frank stood and offered his hand. Karen took it. She relished the heat that radiated from his skin to hers. He helped her with her jacket, paid the bill, and held open the door for her.

"I can open the door on my own," she said, buttoning her coat against the wind.

"Not with me you can't."

His hand resumed its place near her waistline as they walked back to her apartment.

"Red, ah, told me that you've been working together." Frank punched the crosswalk button with enthusiasm, to punctuate his sentence.

"Matt and I meet for lunch. He gives me tips and I follow them up. Some of them are decent leads and others don't pan out." She sighed. "It's just like him to try and piss you off by saying that."

Frank's hand left her back. Karen nearly looked down until she felt his clumsy fingers reach for hers.

"Frank Castle. Are you trying to hold my hand?" She leaned hard into his shoulder and threaded her fingers with his. There was pride in her smile to see the pink glow crawling up his neck, above his collar. She was almost sad to see her apartment building so close.

A popping noise sounded nearby. Before Karen can do much more than look around, Frank wrapped himself around her and spun her against the brick siding.

"You okay?" he panted into her ear.

"Yeah. Frank, you're smothering me and I can't breathe."

One massive hand held the back of her head to his broad chest, the zipper grinding into her cheek. The other mashed their bodies against one another. Karen wiggled her shoulders to loosen his grip, not particularly upset by their position.

"Those were gunshots."

"I know what gunshots sound like," she sighed, her breath hitting his neck and curling back into her face. He smelled like bacon and biscuits. "I'm fine."

Frank scanned the street, his head moving side to side, still pressing her into the bricks. Nothing but a typical Saturday morning with dogwalkers and joggers from what she could see past the collar of his jacket. The hand holding her head gradually relaxed, sliding to her shoulder, then her elbow.

"Don't make me promise anything stupid," she whispered, slanting her head back to look at him. "I can't promise to be safe. I love my job and I make my own choices."

"I know." He chest rumbled against hers while his eyes switched back and forth.

She considered her next words carefully, testing the weight in her mind. "You … you've already torn my heart out and ripped it up, stepped on it and fed it to the dog."

Frank stopped all movement, squarely focused on her.

Then, he kissed her.

Karen maneuvered her arms around his waist under his jacket, her pinkies bumping the pistol handle before she tugged him closer. Frank was rough and thorough—all hands and lips. And she didn't stop taking everything he gave until the wolf whistles sounded across the pavement. He removed his right hand to give a middle finger salute to their rubbernecker as she smiled into the stubble on his chin.

For that moment, everything was perfect: she was Karen Page and he was Frank Castle, tangled in each other's arms.

Shots sounded down the street again. Frank's muscles tensed and he moved himself between her and the danger, tucking her behind his shoulder blades.

Karen laughed quietly and leaned her head onto his back. This was how it would always be with the Punisher, forever leaving and returning bloodied and bruised. He was, after all, Frank Castle, the man who'd told her to hang on with both hands.

"Go," she said, her lips brushing the leather. "I'll go upstairs and work on my article."

Frank half-turned, one hand reaching for her, the other going for the pistol. He nodded once.

The first step he took towards the continuing gunfire set something panicked deep inside. This could be the last time she saw him alive. Or he'd come back riddled with holes. Karen's throat made it nearly impossible to swallow.

Maybe nothing would happen at all. And that's what she chose to believe.

"Wait!" She grabbed his free hand.

His eyebrows sank and his nose scrunched ever so slightly.

Karen smacked his butt. "Be careful and have a good day killing people, honey."

* * *

 _And ta-da! That concludes my unexpected journey into Kastle. For now. ~JS_


End file.
